Catten’s urged Verbard a warning.
“Don’t try to kill them all.”
Verbard cackled.
“Why not?”
CHAPTER 87
In the world of Bish none cared about how or why things happened as they did. Things were as they were, and none gave this a single thought. The Blood Ranger’s did not question why they were on the edge of obliteration. Instead, they fought on.
The underling warriors gave no thought to why they were defeating the dwarfs when they had never done so in battles past. There were no such scores on Bish. Trinos made it so, but Scorch had caused an imbalance, which Trinos had to correct.
There had always been an equalizer for good and evil on Bish, and as the battle between these two forces swung back and forth over decades, centuries, and millennia, the score remained the same—until Scorch decided to tilt the odds in a different favor. Although Trinos had now changed it back, Bish would never be the same. And to get things back on course, the equalizer of Bish had work to do, whether he knew it or not.
Venir ran over the terrain with the speed of a galloping horse. He could not comprehend how he had moved so far so fast, but it was beyond him to slow his pace. His body no longer seemed his own. He had the strength and stamina of ten men in one. He was not the wind, but a gale. Not a river, but a waterfall. Not the rain, but a storm. His mind was a maelstrom of anger and violence.
The spiked helm was strapped to his clenched jaw and the eyelets burned like black fire. A streak of blackness filtered through the air behind him. His tattered clothing, grimy pants and bloodied boots, whistled through the wind. With white knuckles he gripped Brool in his right hand, while his iron-banded shield was tucked into his side. He could see them now, tiny little specks in the near distant Warfield, home of the fallen. He smelled them, he heard them, he loathed them … he wanted to annihilate them.
He paid no notice the two brutish heads with pointed ears and long claws barking orders at the mass of battle ahead. The creatures were of the likes he had never seen before. Their backs were turned, and they screeched an awful sound as he ran past. The Vicious ran like lions on all fours, fanged mouths gnashing as his heals; but, he was only concerned with the embattled throng of underlings ahead.
The two underling predators were fast enough to catch any human in seconds, yet they could not close in on Venir. They were close enough to see the wide V-shaped tattoo that stretched across his expansive back. Their cries were impassioned from behind, but Venir was a human juggernaut now that would not slow.
He felt a hunger now, his meal just steps away. The underling’s dark bodies were a synchronized mass of skill, armor and steel. A singing Blood Ranger hurled two underlings over his head as stabbing weapons pierced his belly, doubling him down.
Venir ran roughshod into the backs of the Badoon ranks. Brool carved out a path of mangled little figures. It was intoxicating as he sunk the axe into the shocked bodies of the underling soldiers. The front lines of the Blood Rangers lay just ahead. With every stride he became quicker and his body stronger. Dark bodies were falling in piles at his feet. Limbs were severed, bones shattered and throats punctured.
Venir leapt high in the air roaring his battle cry. He crashed like a great boulder, crushing two or three beneath him, while slamming into others with his shield. The front ranks of the underlings faltered as the Blood Rangers let out a cheer. Venir rolled across the hard dusty ground and sprang to his feet. Instantly Brool became a whirling razor-edge of death. The Darkslayer had arrived and the underlings howled with their weapons raised in alarm.
All pairs of the underling’s colored eyes set on Venir. They looked like children with sharp toys pointed at him. They chittered back and forth and more cries came for the rear. In an instant the mass swarmed him. Venir swept Brool into the first onslaught; the Blood Rangers anchored his sides. Within moments the red-black blood of the underlings began spreading like pools of spilled oil.
Limbs fell and heads rolled at the fury of the Darkslayer’s corded arm. The underlings trampled over one another, live or dead. Heavy dwarven blades cleaved into their bodies as they surged toward the man they hated beyond reason. Venir felt a few stinging blows as they fell mutilated at his feet. Brool’s sweeping twin blades were as fast as a pair of short swords, weaving back and forth, striking like a snake. Venir and his axe were one. An underling leaped out of the fray, latching itself onto his shield. A dwarven hand axe chopped into its back.
The Vicious were far from the melee, screaming orders to their single minded ranks. Not a single head turned, not a single order was obeyed. The fine-tuned Badoon Brigade was little more than a frenzied hoard. The ensuing chaos resembled rats in a whirlpool; the more they struggled and thrashed, the more useless their attacks. On they came and down they went.
Venir’s body seemed to move with a mind of its own. His own conscious seemed to hover in his mind, watching another’s work unfold. Elation tingled his spine. Wrath was rushing through his blood. Revenge was hot, not cold. He was a mass of muscle and mayhem, steel and stone. He split the face of an emerald eyed underling. He was strong. He punctured the beating heart of another. He was invincible. He was outnumbered ten to one. Hah!
The surrounding Blood Rangers, inspired, exhausted and bleeding, did not hesitate to take hold of the new advantage. Heavy crossbow bolts rocked out again, penetrating the heads of underling warriors with unfailing accuracy. The Blood Rangers’ green and brown garb was now soaked red and black, their beards dripping blood. Their hand axes chopped from all angles, slowing the underling pressure toward the Darkslayer.
Still the Badoon Brigade’s numbers were overwhelming. The Blood Rangers heavy wounds took a toll on their valiant efforts. The underlings were only falling one by one now, rather than in heaps. The Darkslayer had pushed himself towards the middle and was now being swamped by a renewed surge that came upon him.
Venir swung high and low, in large arcing circles at such speed that the Badoon underlings hesitated. One ventured inside the arcing perimeter as Brool came back and chopped its leg out from under it. Venir swiped his axe forward and backward in an unpredictable rhythm. The underlings darted back and forth, stabbing away.
Venir felt a burning slash in his legs. He cried out as he crushed the underlings head with the edge of his shield. Another nipped in and out, only to have the tip of Brool’s spike tear out its knee. Poisoned bolts from underling crossbows zinged over his head. Venir could feel them from behind, looking for an opening on his back. Venir felt his boundless energy begin to subside. His arms began to feel like anchors. His raging mind began to become his own.
One moment Venir seemed to be slaughtering at will, and the next moment there were none within striking distance. He watched as his remaining foes rushed away. He looked around, gasping for air.
Two black hulking creatures, as tall as a man, were circling him now. They had a fluid gate, flawless physiques, and fingers clutching open and closed like daggers. The Vicious were like nothing he had ever seen before. The invincible sensation was vanquished from his spine. Only courage remained.
He stood, covered from helm to toe in baking gore. His eyes shone like boiling blue water. The blackened steel of Brool glinted as he swung it like a sickle back and forth. His body and mind were pushed passed their limits, and every wound he had festered and ached. Keep moving. His hatred of the underlings would not allow him to stop, and his helm, axe, and shield would not relent.
In unison, the armaments he had donned seemed to consume his whole body, driving him onward, without mercy. His mind screamed, wanting it all to end, once and for all, but he knew there was only one way it could ever end. Fight or die. It was time to dish out more revenge.
Venir leapt into action, charging after one Vicious only to be pursued by the other. The first Vicious whirled, readied hungry claws and teeth, and braced for the attack. Venir brought Brool full circle around his head, swinging hard over the creatures ducking head. Venir was
astonished at the speed and agility of the brute as he watched it roll away and pop up beckoning for more.
The pursuing Vicious was pouncing at his back. Brool’s blade almost chopped it down as it sprang away in a split second. Venir held his shield close, head looking back and forth. Whatever they were, they weren’t underlings, and the helm offered him no help anticipating their moves.
They rushed, Brool cut and whirled in offense and defense, in short and long arcs, keeping the Vicious at bay. Venir shuffled over the dusty ground, grit blowing in his teeth as he gasped for breath. He strained with every swing, his boundless energy sapped. The claws of the Vicious were managing a nick here and there and more severe cuts began to follow. Venir groaned again.
He saw their eyes, calm and evil, knowing they were wearing him down, like jackals and a wounded lion. The claw marks burned and he bled freely, soaking the legs of his tattered pants. He chased, chopped and swung, but they danced away. Even his anger could not overcome the dizzying loss of strength he was experiencing. Still Brool burned in his grasp.
He knew he was losing, but he hung on regardless, battling through the pain without any fear of dying. Death meant nothing to him, it was only rest. He could bleed to death at their mercy, he surmised, or try to kill at least one of them before he went. Fight and die! Reaching deep within himself he summoned all the anger and hatred he had left for one more valiant onslaught.
He slung his shield into the fang-like teeth of the nearest Vicious, who howled in pain and surprise. Venir gripped Brool in two hands, high over his head and wrenched it down with such speed and accuracy that the air winced at the blow. The Vicious dodged, losing its entire left leg in the effort. It cried out like a banshee.
Defiant, the one-legged Vicious regained its balance and crouched to attack, it’s stump not showing a drop of blood. As the Vicious leapt, Brool was chopping through the air, slamming it back down to the ground. Venir raised the axe and dropped it with furious strikes, pulverizing the writhing creature as its parts were hacked off like chunks of wood. Its magical life force subsided forever.
The final blows came at a great price as the remaining Vicious grappled Venir from behind. His shredded, battle-weary arms could swing no more. Venir let Brool slip from his shaking hand. He could feel the dead weight of the creature on his back. He felt the vile creature choking him as it ripped his helmet from his head with a powerful yank.
The Vicious hung onto him like an enormous blood leach. Its sharp claws cut and bored under his skin like lances. The opened holes began to bleed. It was man versus Vicious now, skin on skin. Venir could feel icy breath on his neck and cold skin sliding on his back. The muscles of the creature were like tempered steel as it squeezed like a vice. His blood-soaked hair was being ripped from his head. His exhausted body could no longer respond to the demands of his angry mind. Venir had little fight inside him, but it would have to be enough.
The two thrashed about the barren rocky ground, entwined like pythons. Venir’s hard head, powerful elbows, and honed instincts kept the Vicious from taking complete control. Venir’s head busted it underneath its rock hard chin, drawing spots in his eyes. The Vicious twisted away, howling back at him in fury. Venir could not believe he still stood as he wiped the blood from his eyes.
Little more than the span of a man separated the two warriors. The Vicious clicked his talon-like fingers together. Venir sucked his breath in with deep pain-filled draws, noticing the creature didn’t appear to have a scratch. Venir scanned the ground, but Brool was nowhere to be seen. Venir shook his mangled head. He didn’t know why the Vicious hadn’t finished him; maybe it was just punishing him first.
This was it for him. At the Warfield, his last stand. Venir let out a final scream as he charged like an ox. The Vicious struck like a snake, two clawed hands punctured him deep in his chest. Venir looked it in the eyes, choking down the urge to cry out. He clutched the evil thing’s throat in his powerful hands and squeezed with all his might. The eyes of the Vicious bulged from their sockets and its black tongue gagged soundlessly. Blood and saliva spit from Venir’s lips as he wrenched the things iron neck with all his effort.
Venir could see the hatred and mockery in its face as its eyes no longer bulged. The gaping maul of the Vicious turned into a smile. Venir’s grip went slack as his body became ashen. Every ounce of strength was sapped from Bish’s ultimate survivor. He didn’t feel a thing when the creature hoisted him listless into the air, claws still buried to the knuckle in his chest. All he saw was the white hot light above. There was a rush of blue and brown as he was driven into the ground. He twitched like a fish out of water—his body stopped. Somewhere, somebody screamed.
*****
Chongo’s keen ears picked up on the battle from over a mile away. The big dog burst forward, heads howling in the wind. Mood was the first to see the carnage as they crested the ridge above the Warfield. Melegal was riding Quickster right on his heels. As they charged into the scene someone was screaming as Venir’s battered body was pushed high in the air and slammed into the ground.
Mood leapt from Chongo’s back and began bludgeoning the clinging Vicious with the backs of his big hand axes. The creature was balled up over Venir, claws still sunk deep in his sides. Mood’s pounding did nothing to loosen the creature’s death grip. The Vicious scowled at Mood as it hung onto Venir like a giant black tick. Mood tried the blades of his axes, but his dwarven steel had no effect. The thick skin of the Vicious showed no sign of blood.
“What in the seven cities of Bish is this thing?” Mood bellowed. The dwarf began pounding the evil thing on the head with his fists, avoiding the mess of Venir’s gaunt face. Chongo barked and bit, but the Vicious just tightened its grip.
“Vee!” Georgio screamed, rushing to his hero’s side. The big boy jammed his sword into the creatures back. The Vicious let out a terrific scream of pain, but still it held on.
“Gimme that, boy!”
Mood snatched the sword away from the big boy and began jabbing the monster. It shrieked in pain, each poke going deeper, then it let go and jumped away.
Chongo and Mood had the Vicious surrounded, their feet shuffling, cutting off any avenue of escape. Chongo managed to bite deep into its leg and hold it, while Mood slashed it deep in the chest. The Vicious drove its claws into Chongo, and the big dog yelped as it let go. But the furious Vicious remained at bay, with the dog and dwarf in relentless attack.
Melegal slipped past the melee and knelt at Venir’s side. The man was caked with blood and dirt, face almost unrecognizable. The thief tore off a sleeve from his shirt, then struggled to figure out which place to bandage first.
“Vee, what do you need?”
Melegal’s voice was dry and pleading. Venir was pale, his eye lids fluttering, and breath shallow and raspy. His lips were moving. Melegal leaned his ear over Venir’s mouth.
“Helm.”
This single, almost inaudible word was all his busted lips could muster. Melegal’s head snapped up.
“Georgio, Lefty! Find his helmet now!”
Both of the boy’s were a frenzy of action. Georgio appeared, dragging Brool along Venir’s side.
“I said helmet Georgio!”
The boy didn’t appear to notice the words as he kneeled alongside Venir. Lefty appeared with the helmet.
Melegal blinked as he struggled to slip the helmet on his friend’s sticky and matted head. There was no response from Venir, his eyes remained closed. His breathing appeared to have stopped. Melegal slipped the helmet’s buckle under Venir’s chin.
“Is he going to die?” Georgio asked, tears running from his eyes.
Melegal had nothing but a pallid look on his face. A current of emotion stirred inside of the thief as he ran his hand along his friends arm. He was empty. Lefty was curled up on the ground, weeping, body turned away from the sight. Melegal could hear the Georgio’s pleading words. “No! No! No!”
CHAPTER 88
Lord Verbard’s moment of t
riumph had come. He didn’t care about anything other than the destruction of the Darkslayer. The Vicious had his enemy surrounded, but he didn’t care about them. His brother Catten would have to understand. Every battle has casualties. He summoned bolts of bright energy that coiled along his robed arms. Catten turned toward him, gold eyes knowing of his intent, lips mouthing the word, “Yes!” Verbard felt their unity complete then turned his focus back towards the Warfield.
Verbard took another glance at his brother, who whirled at him, face full of surprise. Verbard felt a bolt of pain as two swords burst through the front of his chest. The appearance of the Nameless Two could not have come at a worse time. Verbard looked down at the dark red steel jutting from his chest. It disappeared as he felt them wrenched out of his back. Falling to his knees, Verbard murmured under his lips, a shimmering coating formed around his body.
He watched as the robed warriors darted towards Catten, blades high and low. Catten raised his hands and the Nameless Two’s heads were ignited in flame. Verbard was shocked as he watched the sandaled pair press forward in silence, blades still poised in the air.
“Catten, help me!” Verbard cried out the best he could. His wounds were critical as he tried to wipe the blood away from his chest. He couldn’t focus, or summon the words to stop him from bleeding to death.
Catten waved his hands and the Nameless Two were raised off the ground. With another wave Catten sent both figures sprawling out of the mouth of the cave, over the hillside, and hurtling them to the hard ground below.
Verbard looked up and Catten was by his side whispering in his ear. He could feel his gaping skin close up and the pain subsiding in his body. His internal bleeding had slowed, but the wounds were still grave. Healing wasn’t something the underlings were known for. Verbard would need more help. He had to get back home.
The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals Page 33
